KerrieJean.com

Have just crawled from my bed to the keyboard…….

Why not keep it simple – and walk?

Because I can’t………

Because there’s appalling issues with my [usually reliable] legs…..

….Simultaneous horrendously painful muscle twitching and contractions, deep vein thrombotic knees,  putrid ankle rot,  fissues in the intimate upper inside thigh region………

Why?

Because I’ve just returned from a restorative jaunt to the  Blue Mountains World Heritage listed nature playground where my dear friends insisted I walk.

And being a person who always puts the needs and wishes of others’ before mine, walk I did.

['There's very little to see up here.' cr: University of Washington: flickr]

I am fuming.

I walk every day, mainly from my desk to the staff snacks’ fridge and from the ABC Complaints Department back to the lift before walking in an orderly manner back to my desk.

Why should I walk when I’m relaxing,  getting my dangerous tension/hypertension levels down a notch?

I do that by not walking.

By lying prostrate in World Heritage locations with Sara Lee’s complete product range within arms reach…….

By watching DVDs of my favourite romantic comedies……..’The Shining’,  ‘Silence of The Lambs’ and [and yes, yes, I know it's borderline] ‘Sleepless In Seattle’.

Then……

‘You can’t  lie there all day watching grossly inappropriate material for such a sensitive women…………you’re going for a walk. Get up!’ 

So I do my annual Dunlop Volley Walk.

Along ravines in which the bounties of drought-breaking rains cascade as if God had come back with long, peroxided locks…….

….Up rugged mountains where exquistite native bluebells clutch prehistoric boulders…..

[........Surely, most surely, they would cry out for help if bluebells could talk.......]

……And down, down dark and slippery tracks cradled by bedazzling arrays of moss……..

 And I know, I know as surely as I know the Leeton Redlegs will not be in this year’s grand final, that only one, only one track  will end…….back at the carpark.  

I have done my walk.

Now it seems I may never walk again.

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Is it in our nature to like nature?

Should walking in World Heritage listed areas be banned?

Why, oh why, has it become so hard for people to admit that walking is just not their thing?

****There’s a great untold history of Australian walking  horror stories.

Stop the cover up now. Tell yours. You owe it to yourself – and me.

Do it by:

Just clicking on the ‘comment’ thingo and following the simple instructions. The place to write your gems is at the bottom of the last published comment. *A little bit of counsel for people new to this caper. Your email (just called ‘mail’ in this case) address does NOT come up on site. And just ignore the URL thingo.

URGENT UPDATE:  Monday.

The full story about my psychosexually-driven bargain shopping End Stage Carbon Producing Economy frenzy was written in good faith. [see below]

I did pay SOMETHING for my goods – albeit not much.

Then, I awake to this news.

And…….my already crippling case of Affluenza goes up a notch……

……..Fever pitch itchiness, frightening mood swings of  excitement/despair/hope/doom/love/scorn and most alarmingly……for the very first time in my beautiful life……..a strong desire to have been born a New Zealander……..

http://www.theaustralian.com.au/australian-it/dick-smith-nz-web-glitch-offers-free-goods/story-e6frgakx-1226092196665

God help me.

[Now read on - if you're still able to sit upright......]

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On the historic day Australia pledged urgent action towards a smaller thong print, I went barking mad……

……..I am the the most serious case of Affluenza ever reported.

The discoverer of the mysterious and crippling affliction that is Affluenza, Dr Clive Hamilton, should be informed forthwith…….

I demand to be quarantined……

I am a threat to myself and all right-thinking citizens who, in the interests of ethical consumer restraint, deserve to know what I did.

Okay.

Today, I fell through my door with 56 environmentally friendly bags stuffed with intimate and ‘everyday’ apparel from scores of big city Pacific Rim fashion emporiums.

['I'd like some mutton to dress as lamb.' Cr: Museum of Hartlepool: flickr]

I purchased the aforementioned in an exhausting personal psychosexual End Stage Carbon Producing Economy  frenzy.

Why, why why?

Because…because….because of global warming, Winter only lasted an unseasonably short four days meaning everything was 90 to 98 percent off. 

I feel so goddamn low, so goddamn hollowed out, so……so….so………goddamm shallow.

These are the highlights of what I’m left with:

*Size 8 red windcheater with fake fur novelties on hood, cuffs and collar.

Resulting Look: Mad Asphyxiated Moose.

*Size 16 Cheeky Big/Little Black Dress.

Resulting Look: Depression era St Josephite nun grappling with humiliating habit malfunction.

*Size 12 cropped fake leather jacket.  

Resulting Look: Ageing Bandido at mother’s funeral.

*Size 14 pair French flared dress pants:

Resulting look: Eiffel Tower in force 60 gale.

*Size 12 short merino wool skirt.

Resulting look: Merino riding right up on the back….of me.

Selection of day and ’special occasions’ brassieres of various sizes:

Resulting look: Indiscernible. 

[Danger, DANGER!  Too, too small brassiere collection demonstrating potentially fatal slingshot capacities]

So there you have it….

Australia tries to save the planet.

I try to present myself in a reasonably dignified fashion……..

……..Only to acquire the most alluring Vinnie’s bag ever collected.

For new members of our vibrant kerriejean.com community, if you loved/hated this little piece you’ll most likely love/hate this one. It’s all about my wedding dress.

http://www.kerriejean.com.au/2009/10/kjs-wedding-dress-is-off-at-moruya-airport/

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Dearie me…….

Impetuousness is my only  flaw but gee, it’s a very bad one to have.

Humiliation is so often the result.

The best thing I can do is offer good advice.

(a) Try on potential purchases (b) don’t buy anything reduced by more than 90 percent and (c) be honest about your age and body shape.

I know, I know……all terribly disturbing things to do but trust me, the alternative doesn’t feel very nice….not very nice at all.

Looking forward to hearing from about anything insignificant happening on your patch……shopping horror stories most welcome…..

It’s easy to share your distress – simply by:

Just clicking on the ‘comment’ thingo and following the simple instructions. The place to write your gems is at the bottom of the last published comment. *A little bit of counsel for people new to this caper. Your email (just called ‘mail’ in this case) address does NOT come up on site. And just ignore the URL thingo.

If this wasn’t the worst way to end my week……

…….Which, quite frankly, already hadn’t been what you’d describe as  ’stellar’……..

The email from kerriejean.com field correspondent, Roma Street, was tagged ‘urgent’ -  its brevity only adding to the drama:

KJ – I read in *’The Irrigator’ that Leeton has just become the proud possessor of its first set of traffic lights.

What do you make of this development?

[*Award-winning bi weekly newspaper of my hometown in the Murrumbidgee Irrigation Area, Murray-Darling Salinity Basin, NSW]
http://www.irrigator.com.au/news/local/news/general/towns-first-traffic-lights-are-installed/2212227.aspx

For all on the Pacific Rim and in the Free World this is what I make of it, this is what I make of it…………..
I am sad, angry, confused, fearful, perplexed, nervy, twitchy, itchy, hollow, all-at-sea and feeling in need of a facelift before my time………….

[Is there no amber in life? cr: US National Archives: flickr]

WHAT NEXT?

A Dan Murphy’s emporium on the site of the historic Temperance Union Hall……..?

…A  soccer ball the size of the Hindenberg flat bang in the middle of the historic Leeton Redlegs Australian Rules Football Club rooms?

……An Aldis superstore on the site of my historic adolescent groping site, the Roxy Theatre….? 

God help me.

God help my hometown.

*And thank you Chadwick for this missive……if there’s one time I need some philosophical ponderings it is now……….

‘The emergence of traffic lights in Leeton is a national disgrace.

Before, we had a fair rule for all: give way to the right or die….

Give way to the right was obeyed, drunk or sober.

Now wankers will say: I was just crossing on the amber.

Amber?

There is no amber  in life.’

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Oh dear, dearie me………

A terrible start to the weekend………

Please tell me: do you feel old too? 

Is there really no amber in life?

Tell me……..do it by…….

Just clicking on the ‘comment’ thingo and following the simple instructions. The place to write your gems is at the bottom of the last published comment. *A little bit of counsel for people new to this caper. Your email (just called ‘mail’ in this case) address does NOT come up on site. And just ignore the URL thingo.

Last night I dreamt I went to Combe House  again.

……Via Devon, via Exeter, via Honiton, via the village of Gittisham……

……..All via a catastrophic London romance which sent me fleeing into the windswept counties desperate for psychosexual balance - and a Qantas seat home.

1981.

And my Gap Year had morphed into a Grand Caynon where my Broken Spirit swung from side to side on the flimsiest of Heart Strings.

The advertisement in the Earl’s Court vegemite shop provided immediate succour.

Wanted: Young strapping Aussie gal ripe for adventure and the experience of appalling wages.

*A once in a full Lunar eclipse opportunity to live and work in an historic slice of Devon.

Duties: Silver service waitressing in a restaurant with [Unfairly] No Hats.

Perks: Six quid a week, own bed in historic stables, mob cap, frilly full apron.  

I arrived with only a backpack full of broken dreams and the telephone number of the Qantas booking people to ring immediately when finances permitted.

Combe House emerged from the mist like an Elizabethan gorilla.

A fine, young, charismatic New Zealander who’d quickly been promoted to Antipodean Staff Superintendent showed me around the 2,300 rooms not counting conservatories.

Brett said not to worry if I thought the eyes of a particularly mentally tortured Combe House ancestor were moving in his portrait in the entrance hall.

Because they were….

…..They always did.

The silver service restaurant with [Unfairly] No Hats was where fat judges on the Exeter circuit and their bumilic wives [younger by at least 40 years] gorged on [the judges] or threw up [wives] 15 course bacchanalian feasts.

Nothing from the stags was wasted……..

…….Stag testicle pate, antler soup with stag ear croutons, stag fillet with stag tongue patties…….

In my mob cap and full frilly apron I hovered around tables…….singing the praises of stag and retrieving my runaway silver service peas from the laps of guffawing codgers.

My favourite part of the night was pushing the pudding trolley around.

[The elephant in the dining room:cr: State Library NSW: Sam Hood: flickr]

And what would you be having from my fine pudding trolley Sir and Madaaaaaaaam?

Turning my back on Sir and Madaaaaaaaam to retrieve the Mattercreamhorn or the Combe Creme Crescendo, I’d stuff a couple of whatevers in my mouth - gulp, gulp – and turn around.

Here we are, Sir and Madaaaaaaaam……  

It all became too much.

…….Investigations into why my pudding trolley’s receipts did not add up……

….The realisation that I’d be pushing my pudding trolley around until at least September, 1989, to secure even a cat crate on Qantas to get home.

……….Constant sniping from the Head Waiter that my silver service skills were at the level of copper alloy at best……

……….Bum pinching codgers so rude they weren’t even prepared to leave a tip for what I considered a rare privilege……..

On a dark and stormy night a taxi waited at the end of Combe’s long drive.

After scurrying up it [disguised as a badger] I flung myself at the driver.

‘I’m escaping!’

He was a kind and understanding gentleman.

‘As long as you pay the fare love, I don’t care what ya doin’….’

[**For readers for whom the words 'Downton Abbey' mean nowt click  'ere: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Downton_Abbey]

*************************************************************************

Well, well, well……lots to discuss………

Was I guilty of downright irresponsibility?

Please don’t say ‘yes’ because then I’ll feel bad for at least half an hour and that’s not the way I like to live.

What sort of shocking jobs did you have in Britain or on the Continent when you were full of hope……..and frantically saving for a Top deck tour to the Black Forest?

I don’t know about you but the contemporary ‘Gap Year’ doesn’t seem like much fun.

Apparently, it’s all about planting trees in Africa or somesuch…….giving back. When I was 20 I had NOTHING to give back….nothing at all…….

Looking forward to hearing from you. It’s easy to give back…..do it by:

Just clicking on the ‘comment’ thingo and following the simple instructions. The place to write your gems is at the bottom of the last published comment. *A little bit of counsel for people new to this caper. Your email (just called ‘mail’ in this case) address does NOT come up on site. And just ignore the URL thingo.

WHO IS HISTORY’S MOST FAMOUS AND ENTHUSIASTIC QUEUER?

Simple!

From ‘The Diana Chronicles’ by the former editor of ‘The New Yorker’, Tina Brown:

…….She [Princess Diana] called her ‘healing therapist’ Simone Simmons from outside Ronnie Scott’s jazz club….

 She said how much she loved standing in the queue, admitting she’d never had to wait in line for anything before.

‘I’m queuing!’ she crowed happily into her mobile phone. ‘It’s wonderful! You meet so many different people in a queue!’

[* Do have a fantastic time queuing for your traditional devon and tomato luncheon sandwich - KJ]

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My suburb’s gone all Pre-Perestroika!

The peasants are doing very nicely for themselves [thank you!] except in one key area.

There’s a dreadful *macaron shortage.

*I spell it ‘macaroon’, and I say it ‘macaroon’ but the experts go with ‘macaron’ – so who am I to argue? [It's just not in my nature.......]

[Macaron breadwinners: cr: Library of Congress: flickr]

The result?

Queues of  hundreds of thousands of  desperate people [with plummeting blood sugar levels] outside the modest premises of the only man on the Pacific Rim with stocks of macarons, Mr Adriano Zumbo.

In a country facing its biggest challenge since myxomatosis, Mr Zumbo should never have gone on Masterchef with the news: 

‘I have macarons.’

My investigations show that his latest offerings include Japanese Mayo Macarons, Charred Coconut And Black Rice Pudding Macarons and for the purists, simple Satay Macarons.

So dire is the situation, people – most dressed in designer garb - are forced to queue for six hours in the cold and rain for just two or three macarons costing 1,546 rubles each.

Even though things are very tough I have my pride.

I have never and will NEVER queue for a macaron.

I’ve discovered a bakery tucked away in the back streets that has small supplies of things called ‘date scones’ for 4 kopaks each.

I know it’s wrong NOT to tell anyone……..

But, as history shows, when people are pushed to their limits, morality is the first casuality.

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Would love to hear your views on the macaron shortage.

If you’ve got the strength please report in by:

Just clicking on the ‘comment’ thingo and following the simple instructions. The place to write your gems is at the bottom of the last published comment. *A little bit of counsel for people new to this caper. Your email (just called ‘mail’ in this case) address does NOT come up on site. And just ignore the URL thingo.

After I finish this missive I’m going under the doona - indefinitely………

……SO exhausted am I after an incredibly philosophically taxing hot drink with a dear friend.

It started as per normal…….

I reported in on my latest ponderings and personal breakthroughs……….

……A date suddenly ending in whiplash when I - in a minxy mood - pushed the car seat ’recline’ button before releasing the seat belt, a new age spot on an unmentionable body part….

……And on the political front, the bleedingly obvious…… 

Julia and The Mousse Man will not marry because the Gay Rights Nuptials Lobby would surely muck up the big day.

When the ‘if anyone knows why Julia and the Mousse Man shouldn’t be joined together by hair extension glue, say so now or forever hold onto your toupee’,  protesters would shout: 

Simple!  Because if we can’t why the bloody hell can youse two?

My dear friend said that, as usual, I was thinking [and living] with breathtaking clarity.

THEN she said:

But KJ, what’s it all about, what’s it ALL about?

I had been waiting for this question – the big one - since at least the start of this financial year.

I said:

Life is a colossal Bushells tea chest…..

In it, a stubby glass surrounded by much bubble wrap.

In the stubby glass, all the things we have to do to give the impression we are responsible participants in this thing loosely called life……

…… Contributing birthday cake money for unpleasant work mates, paying exorbitant rent in sub-standard Tora Bora condominiums, keeping  Brazilian waxing appointments,watching ‘7:30′…..

Now, to that bubble wrap…….

Most folks [my dear friend] spend their lives in the Bubble Wrap Zone but best to avoid it like the mouse plague currently making a mockery of the Great Australian Bite.

The Bubble Wrap Zone is where aggressive renovators, superannuation obsessives  [pie in the sky just before you die] and the filthy rich cyronics set, lurk.

Instead, they should attend my free, upcoming seminar titled:

Guess what? No One Lives For Four Hundred Years.

Then there are The Boundary Riders.

[This is living! cr: State Library Sth Aust: flickr]

The Boundary Riders know the Bubble Wrap Zone is preposterous terrain.

They’ve been Ridin’ The Boundary forever.

……Enjoyin’ grits under the stars with other Boundary Riders,  fulfillin’ crucial fence hole pluggin’ responsibilities and enjoyin’ the sweet company of other Boundary Riders who occasionally – as if out of now where - appear at warm campsites.

But make no mistake [my dear friend] Boundary Riders are as terrified of Death as anyone else.

Even more so.

A mesquite bush ain’t got no chance against them there winds that blows and blows along the boundary fence.

And weez all mesquite bushes.

And that [my dear friend] is all this mesquite bush is gonna say at this here juncture…..

My dear friend gave me a big hug and I went blowin’ up the street.

****For the new visiting mesquite bushes in here a big howdydodedo……and you might enjoy checking out how kerriejean.com marked The Fall of *The Rev Kev, June, 2010.  

*The Rev Kev was a great supporter of this site…..

….Then, as history records, he went blowin’ off  in the wind just like…like…..[I got it!] that certain bush we’ve been talkin’ ’bout. 

http://www.kerriejean.com.au/2010/06/rudd-spill-afp-swearing-units-rush-to-parl-h/

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Don’t ya just hate people when they say: ‘Don’t worry about Death, there’s nothing you can do about it.’

Ain’t that THE problem?

Ain’t that the starting point?

Oh dear…..but I do feel better having written this little piece……

Alright, alright!

Saddle up…..!

Report in………ain’t gonna cost you a thing……may even make those grits taste a little finer. Every thought, every dream, every nightmare, valid……

 Do it [report in, that is] by:

Just clicking on the ‘comment’ thingo and following the simple instructions. The place to write your gems is at the bottom of the last published comment. *A little bit of counsel for people new to this caper. Your email (just called ‘mail’ in this case) address does NOT come up on site. And just ignore the URL thingo.